Knowledge of such a skill was what now made Cole such a valuable asset. ‘Enemies of the West’ could now be killed cleanly, effectively, and with no indication as to how it had been done — no alien chemicals in the body, no severed brake lines, no accidental ‘falls’ in front of speeding trains. Just a heart attack, a stroke, a brain haemorrhage. Unfortunate, but often just an unavoidable part of life, and unworthy of further investigation. And all Cole had to do was get close to them.
He closed the paper and placed it back on the table next to him. No, thought Cole, Crozier was dead.
35
It was nearly ten o’clock when Hansard entered the reception lobby, Stern at his side. There was no search or metal-detector check-in for him, Cole noticed. An assistant came out to greet him, taking the coat from his shoulders before he ventured through the archway into the lounge.
Leaning on his ebony cane and puffing on his pipe, Hansard scanned the room, his eyes lighting up as they met with Cole’s. He said something quietly in Stern’s ear, and the big man nodded grudgingly and moved across to the end of the bar. He pulled up a stool and sat down, all the while looking sullenly across at Cole, who ignored him.
As Hansard approached, Cole stood to greet him. Hansard propped his cane against a nearly chair and offered his hand, which Cole took. ‘Well my friend, looks like you’ve done it again. Got confirmation last night.’ He nodded at Cole approvingly. ‘Good man.’
So Cole had been right; there was nothing to worry about. Crozier was dead.
‘May I?’ Hansard said, gesturing to the chair near Cole upon which his cane rested.
Cole looked surprised. ‘Here?’ he asked.
Hansard sat down into the armchair and was followed, reluctantly, by Cole. A brandy was brought over immediately by the attentive barman. ‘Mark,’ Hansard began soothingly, ‘would you rather we had our little discussion in one of the interview rooms? Despite my influence, whatever we said there would be recorded and filmed. Likewise outside these walls,’ he continued. ‘You know nowhere is safe from Echelon.’ Cole nodded his head. The Echelon eavesdropping system was indeed an incredible technological marvel. As well as scanning every voice and electronic message sent around the world, its ingenious systems could turn anything into a voice recorder; it could take over the power of a mobile telephone and activate its internal microphone, or it could translate the reverberations of a pane of glass in a restaurant into voices. It was an incredible weapon, and Cole knew that if Hansard wanted the conversation recorded, there was nothing he could do to stop him.
‘Most of this building,’ he continued, ‘is covered with surveillance equipment of all description. This room, on the other hand,’ he explained conspiratorially, gesturing around the huge lounge, ‘is not. It is a rest area, if you will, free from prying eyes, or ears. It’s where our guests come after their first series of talks, to let off a bit of steam while we decide what to do with them next.’ As Hansard took a sip of his brandy, Cole accepted the confirmation of his earlier deductions about the place. ‘Not that many do,’ Hansard carried on. ‘They’re just too damned suspicious of everyone. Won’t believe the room’s not bugged.’ He smiled. ‘Can’t say I blame them. Don’t suppose I would, in their position. But please believe me when I tell you that this entire building is secure from external listeners, and this particular room is the only one in the building that is safe from internal listeners.’
Cole was already convinced, even before Hansard enthusiastically summed up. ‘My friend, we are now, quite literally, in the most secure location in England. We may discuss whatsoever we like, and only you or I will ever know about it.’ Hansard’s eyes seemed to twinkle as he spoke.
‘Okay,’ Cole agreed. ‘We can talk here. But maybe first of all you can explain just what it is that we have to talk about in the first place.’ Although Cole could not be angry at Hansard — they had been through too much together for that — he was concerned over this whole breech of operational protocol, and wanted the man to know that he was not happy.
‘Mark, I don’t think I need to spell out the ramifications of what we’ve done. This wasn’t some tin-pot North Korean General or some damned psychotic terrorist leader. This was the Director of the CIA’s National Clandestine Service, one of our own people. And we killed him. Now what do you think would happen if anyone ever learnt of our involvement?’
It was a serious question, but Cole considered it only momentarily. ‘It doesn’t matter what they would do if they found out. They won’t do anything, because they won’t find out.’
Hansard took a sip of his brandy and looked at Cole coolly. ‘Normally I would accept that,’ he offered. ‘But not with this. I have to know this won’t come back to haunt us. You have to tell me everything — dates, times, places, people. We have to be absolutely sure that there can be no comebacks.’
‘But sir, they won’t even investigate his death, and even if they do, what then? I don’t even officially exist anymore, so there’s no way to track me, or link me to either you or the US government.’
‘I believe that is probably the case,’ Hansard allowed, ‘but I have to know. We cannot afford to take any chances here, you must realize that. So tell me. Everything.’ He patted the remnants of tobacco out of his pipe and started to repack it. He interrupted his routine to look up at Cole and smile. ‘After all,’ he continued, ‘if you can’t trust me, who can you trust?’
Cole settled back into his chair. He never told anyone the details of his missions; that was the point, wasn’t it? They used him for missions so that there would be plausible denial. But maybe, Cole started to wonder, Hansard was right — maybe there was something that he might have missed. This was no ordinary situation, and Cole couldn’t blame Hansard for wanting to keep a tighter control than usual. And he was definitely right about one thing — whatever his faults, Hansard could be trusted. He couldn’t help but think about how he could still be in that stinking prison in Pakistan if not for Hansard’s intervention.
Finally, slowly, Cole nodded his head. ‘Okay,’ he said simply. ‘I’ll tell you.’
36
It was past noon when Cole finished his report, and the two men had moved over to one of the enclosed booths, where they had ordered lunch. The lounge bar was a little more full now, and most of the booths were occupied. A string of people lined the bar, but still nobody was talking.
Hansard looked satisfied. He was pleased that Cole had lost none of his ability to deliver a good, detailed post-action report. He had covered every aspect of the operation, and seemed to have left out nothing. There was, however, one thing which concerned him. He was about to mention it when a waiter brought over their food — a lobster thermidore for Hansard and succulent roast duck breast in port sauce for Cole. The efficient waiter made sure that everything was satisfactory before making his exit.
Hansard lifted his glass, and Cole did the same. ‘Here’s to a successful operation. Congratulations.’ They clinked their glasses over the table and both took a sip. They both smiled in appreciation at the subtle taste of the wine.